People Watching
by VenitianFuneral
Summary: Dorian and The Iron Bull have an incredibly exciting conversation. A writing exercise.


He was sitting on a bench a short way away from the Herald's Rest with a sour look on his face. The man seemed to possess only a short spectrum of expressions that tended to linger somewhere between "mild disgust" and "general disinterest," not that it really mattered. There's a sort of confidence in indifference that intimidates people, an incredibly subtle manipulation tactic that Bull appreciated quietly.

Though he hadn't lingered long enough to draw attention to himself, Dorian looked in his direction anyway. Expecting the long-distance interaction to end shortly, Bull bit his thumb at the man, gave a bit of a sarcastic wave, but instead of being brushed off, Dorian motioned him over. Bull remained where he stood near the grand staircase, looked between the few dozen other individuals milling about the grounds, trying to figure out exactly who he could be hailing. The scoff of annoyance could practically be heard from all the way across the yard, and Dorian motioned again.

A few long strides and he stood about two meters away, now, skeptical. Dorian's disinterested look bled into one of irritation.

"What?"

Dorian gestured languidly to a nearby log bench. "Entertain me, would you?"

Bull complied without hesitance, though he responded with an affectionate antagonism that was only half-serious. "Not much of an entertainer. Maybe one'a the big-hats upstairs has a servant you can rent off'a him."

"You'd really think peasants would anticipate for their children to become jesters as well as servants, would you not? Give them a little extra value."

"Nothin' like a filthy limerick to liven up a slave whipping."

"Humor is a coping mechanism, isn't it?" Dorian sniffed, tilted his chin, watched thin elfen man stumble theatrically and fall into the dirt. He chuckled a bit at this. "I think I hear perhaps thirty wretched puns and double-entendres from the lot of you a day. I'm surprised you aren't telling knock-knock jokes to apostates."

"Corpses are a pretty crap audience." The elf scrambled to his feet, brushed the dirt from his pants before looking about anxiously for onlookers. The moment he made eye contact with Dorian, he sprinted off to the requisitions office. "Why am I over here?"

"Because I am bored and desire companionship." He raised an eyebrow, shot Bull an icy glance. "Is that a good enough answer? I thought yours would do."

"You're in a good mood." Spoken somewhat sarcastically, though it was fairly infrequent for Dorian to want to be around anyone of his own volition, so maybe there was a bit of truth in the observation.

"Please, all of my moods are good. The rest of you just have bad taste." He said stiffly, a bit of a grin twitching at the corners of his mouth.

"I'm sure."

Dorian did not respond, continued looking vacantly off in the distance, his eyes moving as he watched Skyhold's mid-afternoon pedestrian traffic. Bull tried to match his gaze, to figure out what was so damned interesting, but there was nothing of note to be seen. He looked back at him, confused.

"What are you doing?"

"People-watching."

"So you're spying."

"No." He said sharply, then clenched his jaw and exhaled a brief, breathy laugh. "Maybe. There's no ill intent behind it."

"What's the point, then?"

Dorian shifted, his perfect upright posture curling into something a little more casual as he leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely. He had not averted his gaze at all, and Bull stared at him for a moment to make sure the man was actually blinking. "None, really. It amuses me. As you're probably quite aware, there's much to be learned about a person simply by their idling. That woman, over there, for instance." He pointed to a frail-looking girl in scout's leathers talking to a man in full plate mail. She had strange posture, a bit of a hunch, and her hands were at her sides. "I don't know her name, but I know she is a musician. Watch her hands, her fingers."

Bull squinted, sharpening his vision by a small enough fraction that he could see the fingers of her right hand moving in small, fluid sweeps. Her neck was slightly forward, shoulders hunched.

"She plays a stringed instrument of some sort. Her posture implies that she spends a fair amount of time a day looking downward."

"Think maybe that all might imply something different?"

This earned him a confused glance, and then a scowl as he realized what he meant.

"Talk to me when you can learn what somebody's into just by lookin' at 'em."

Dorian maintained his glare for a few seconds more before he softened, sighed, turned his head. "Truthfully, then? While it does amuse me, I like to be reminded of the faults of others."

"You need reminders?"

"Despite being intelligent, charming, and ridiculously good-looking, I am not immune to the occasional bout of melancholy. Basking in others' misfortunes brings me some comfort every now and then."

"Wow. That's actually worse than what you said before." Bull grinned, teasing and lopsided. Dorian narrowed his eyes, glared at him through his periphery, but there was a bit of a smile there.

"At least I'm bloody honest, aren't I?" He sat straight, inspected his cuticles briefly before looking back over at Bull with a much softer expression. He was very, very right about being ridiculously good looking. "What is your solution, then, if mine is so bad? And do not say drinking, because that is a given."

"I like to hit stuff. Plus the stronghold's got plenty of, uh, shoulders to cry on."

"Really, now?" Dorian raised an eyebrow, grinning a bit. "You don't strike me as the kind to cry often."

"I usually provide the shoulder."

"I'll have to remember that."


End file.
